


Let Them Eat Cake

by lyricwritesprose



Series: Myth-taken [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cake, Gen, Lockdown Fic, Misinterpretations, one of the OCs is pretty wrong about the other one at first, outsider pov, so sort of unreliable narrator?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:54:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24174688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricwritesprose/pseuds/lyricwritesprose
Summary: When two down-on-their-luck young men try to steal a cash box, they end up frightened, confused, and fed.Meanwhile, Aziraphale is just trying to offload some of his cake.  Which is harder than it sounds, considering the conclusions one of his burglars draws about him.
Series: Myth-taken [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559953
Comments: 100
Kudos: 570
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	Let Them Eat Cake

**Author's Note:**

> For those who haven't looked up UK law, the "CBO" that Chikere mentions is a "Criminal Behavior Order." As I understand it, this is the sort of thing someone might have on their record if they had decked someone in a bar.

Keegan O’Reilly was bitterly aware that he was probably breaking into a shop because his parents had named him Keegan O’Reilly.

Of course, there was no way to be  _ certain _ your resume was being thrown out because you had an Irish name. Nobody came out and said it. But the fact remained that Keegan couldn’t get a job, and his jobseeker’s allowance had fallen through because his caseworker was a gobshite, and odd jobs were impossible with COVID-19 sweeping the country, and donations from friends had dried up for similar reasons, and so here he was.

He wasn’t like his partner, Chikere Abara. Chikere was a criminal. Chikere was used to this. Chikere was  _ enormous, _ a man who looked like he could play American football for fun—Chikere was scary, and there was a certain class of employer who liked that. Keegan had to admit that even he was very slightly afraid of the man. It was tough not to be a little nervous about someone who could probably fling you around the way the Hulk had swung that weasely god guy in that Marvel movie.

The lock on the shop’s back door was surprisingly easy to pick. Keegan knew he wasn’t good at locks, and fully expected to have to do something more violent to it, but this time, his fingers just brought the picks to the right spot. He must be getting better.

Whether it was something he  _ wanted _ to get better at was a whole other matter.

The door came open and they moved into the shop. The lights weren’t entirely off; someone had left one on near the armchair, which struck Keegan as a waste of electricity. Someone was going to be upset when they got their bill. Someone was going to be even more upset when they looked for money to pay it with.

The shop was called  _ A. Z. Fell and Co, _ and it sold books. Keegan wasn’t a book person, but as he looked around at the worn volumes on the shelves, he wondered suddenly if they were missing a trick by just going for the cash box. Weren’t some books valuable? Maybe they should grab some of the old dusty things and see how much they could get for them—

No. The key to a successful robbery was speed. Keegan looked around the shop, moved towards the front, and found what had to be the cash register—no card reader, but an antique cash machine and, in the drawer—

Keegan made a triumphant noise as he picked up the cash box.

“Put that back, please.”

Keegan, to his surprise, put that back.

The man confronting them was plump, white-haired, and old-fashioned looking. He was the least imposing individual that anyone could imagine.  _ Definitely _ no match for Chikere. “Chi—” Keegan began.

Chikere grabbed his shoulder, hard enough to be painful.  _ “No real names, _ idiot.”

“Whatever,  _ Joe, _ then, take care of him.” He raised his voice. “We’re taking all your money. If you’re smart, you’ll stay out of it and let us.”

“You do realize that stealing is wrong?” the man said.

“No, I thought it was a public service. Yes, of course it’s wrong! Which is how you know that I’m not joking, we  _ will _ beat you unconscious if you don’t get out of our way!”

“That’s a dreadful attitude!” The man seemed honestly shocked. “What’s your name, young man?”

“Keegan O’Reilly,” Keegan said, as Chikere made a noise that somehow conveyed,  _ how could I possibly be saddled with this idiot? _ “What’s it to you?”

“And you?” the man went on, turning to Chikere.

“Chikere Abara. Look, we’re taking the cash box and leaving.” Chikere edged back towards the desk. He did not, Keegan realized suddenly, want to turn his back on the man.

Come to that, neither did Keegan.

Because there was something distinctly weird going on here. Chikere had objected to  _ Keegan _ saying his name before, but then he had given it without protest.

“No,” the man said, “no, I don’t think that’s going to happen. I’d far rather you have a seat, over there—you see where the sofa is?—and I’ll bring you something to eat. If you’re desperate enough to try something like this, you’re probably desperate enough to need it.”

Keegan was not sure exactly  _ how _ he found himself on the sofa. Oh, he knew how he had got there; he had used his legs and walked over. Maybe it was better to say that he didn’t know  _ why. _

There was something weird going on here. Weird, and a bit frightening.

“Keegan,” Chikere said in a low voice.

“I know.”

“We should run.”

“I  _ know.” _

“Why aren’t we running?”

“I don’t—”

The man reappeared, carrying three small china plates rather awkwardly. They had slices of dark brown cake on them. “Here you are,” he said pleasantly, “and here  _ you _ are, and you  _ must _ tell me if I’ve got the cherries right. You can call me Mr. Fell, by the way. Proprietor. Go on, have a nibble.” He sat down in the armchair across from them and cut a tiny, triangular piece off the end of his cake with his fork.

Keegan was Irish. For the most part, he despised and resented any stereotypes about Irish people being superstitious, or mystical, or more connected to spiritual dimensions or  _ any _ stupid shite that people came up with. Keegan was—under normal circumstances—a person who would walk directly under a ladder to punch someone for calling him superstitious.

Under normal circumstances.

But there were some things you just  _ picked up, _ from living in the culture until your parents went and moved you to England at age fourteen, in the same way any American kid probably knew that Darth Vader was not your friend even if they hadn’t watched the movie. And the thing Keegan had picked up, the thing which was making its way to the front of his brain right now and screaming for attention, was  _ Don’t eat the food, you goddamn idjit. _

Keegan grabbed onto Chikere’s arm as he raised the fork to his mouth.

Mr. Fell watched the motion with mild surprise. “I assure you,” he said, “I’ve done nothing untoward to the torte. I can switch pieces with you, if you want assurance.” He put the small piece of torte back on the plate, and held his out to Keegan. “I suppose it’s only natural, associating with criminals, that you would suspect criminal intent. One becomes paranoid, I would imagine. But  _ I _ am hardly a criminal. Take a bite. It’s perfectly safe.”

“Like hell I will,” Keegan said. The part of him that had been honed in schoolyard fights told him to show his metaphorical teeth, even when he had the sinking feeling that he was overmatched. “Listen, arsehole—”

_ “You will sit, and you will eat, and you will be polite.” _

Keegan had thought he had been afraid, a few times in his life. Keegan abruptly realized that he was wrong. Those times had been mild alarm.  _ This _ was fear.

Some very distant part of his brain remembered that  _ fell _ used to mean great and terrible. And it would have seemed to be a ridiculous word to apply to a fussy bookseller in a waistcoat, except—except that Keegan knew what he had heard, and what he had heard was power, and he never, ever wanted that power aimed at him, he didn’t even want it to  _ look _ at him. Right now, Keegan wanted to be  _ polite _ more than he wanted air, and he was desperately aware that he only had a limited grasp on how to be polite.

Despite a host of ancestors in his head screaming  _ don’t eat their food, you idjit, _ Keegan picked up the fork and took a bite.

It was true, there was something slightly off about the cherries. Not  _ wrong, _ exactly, just—odd.

The cake was good, but it didn’t justify the small noise that Mr. Fell made as he took a bite. “Now,” he said, “what brings you to this? I can’t imagine that you actually  _ want _ to make a living stealing cash boxes. Even if you don’t care about other people, the fear of getting caught would make it a poor prospect, I imagine.”

Chikere’s voice sounded high-pitched, as if he had felt the power, and the raw terror, as well. “You’ve got no business saying we don’t care about other people. You don’t know anything about me.”

“Other than the fact that you’re  _ here,” _ Mr. Fell observed.

“Not my fault, is it? Listen, I  _ like _ people. I went to bartending school. Made it all the way through, and that wasn’t easy, working and taking night classes at the same time. Always pictured myself like it is on telly, where people come up and tell you their troubles. I wanted to  _ help. _ Only no pub will hire anybody with a CBO, so I ended up bashing heads together just to make the rent.”

“I didn’t know that,” Keegan said, in a very small voice.

“Yeah, well. You went and put me in the ‘big guy’ slot the moment you saw me, didn’t you? Just like everyone else. Nobody looks at me and sees a bloke, they all look at me and see a tank. Some people think, ‘big, mean bastard, wouldn’t want to fight him,’ and some people think, ‘big, mean bastard, wouldn’t it be nice if he’d lean on people for me,’ but it’s basically the same underneath.”

He was, Keegan realized, completely right.

It didn’t seem possible. Keegan was the victim of his life. He knew that. He wasn't the arsehole.

Except that he had apparently been the arsehole.

Unaware—maybe unaware—of the inner readjustment Keegan was doing, Mr. Fell raised another bite of chocolate cake to his lips. "CBO," he said.

"The way I see it," Chikere said, “there are some words that people say, and when they say them to a black guy, what they’re  _ actually _ saying is, ‘Please, sir, I have too many teeth, sir, could you help me with that little problem, sir.’ And I’m always happy to help.”

“Understandable,” Mr. Fell said. “Not  _ wise, _ perhaps, but understandable. Under normal circumstances, I would tell you that if you keep looking, you may well find someone who will ignore the CBO. As it stands, however, any bartender is facing difficulties. I think—I hope—you’ll find something better than this, but I must confess I have no idea what it is to be.” He turned to Keegan. “What about you?”

It took Keegan two tries to make his voice come out. “Need to make my rent. Never done this before.”

“I daresay not, or you might have heard the rumors.” Mr. Fell didn’t elaborate, and Keegan decided that he very much didn’t want him to. “How do you like the torte, by the way?”

“It’s very good,” Keegan said. “Thank you.” He would have said the same if there had been broken glass in it, but as it happened, he wasn’t lying. The cake  _ was _ good.

Mr. Fell wiggled slightly. “I’ve been having so much fun baking! When you go, you must take some cake. And bread, too, of course. Mustn’t eat cake all the time, it’s bad for your teeth.” He took a bite of his cake, and a sensuous expression crossed his face.

The cake was good. It wasn’t  _ that _ good.

Mr. Fell talked happily about cooking while Chikere and Keegan ate. Keegan ate slowly. He wasn’t sure what would happen to him at the end of his slice of cake. He just knew that it would be whatever Mr. Fell wanted it to be, and that thought was making his blood run cold. He had been  _ rude. _

And he didn’t know if he had made up for it by being polite afterwards. The problem was, Keegan had the strong suspicion that being polite started with staying out of whatever-it-was’s space and not trying to steal their cash box.

Chikere reached the end of the cake first. “Thank you,” he said. “That was really good.”

“I’m so glad you enjoyed it! Come on back, I’ll pack a bag for both of you—” He bustled to the back, and Keegan followed him hesitantly, polishing off one last cherry. It sounded like they were getting out of here. Mr. Fell made it sound like they were getting out of here.

There had to be a catch. You didn’t walk into a situation with—with whatever Mr. Fell was—and just  _ walk out _ with a sack full of baked goods. There had to be a catch. Some sort of horrific stinger in the tail. That was the way these stories  _ worked. _

But Mr. Fell packed up a sack of baked goods, one for each of them, and handed it to them. “Now, remember,” he said, “don’t try to rob anyone else, for Heaven’s sake. And stay inside; there is a plague on, and believe me, you don’t mess around with Pestilence if you can help it. Look for opportunities, and they’ll probably find you. I can’t be more specific than that. Enjoy the cakes!”

And they were shooed out of the shop.

There was a long silence as both of them stood there, staring at the firmly closed door.

“What,” Chikere opined finally, “the fuck. Was that.”

“I think we should get out of here,” Keegan said.

“No, but what the  _ fucking _ fuck happened in there.”

“Look,” Keegan said, and swallowed. “There are beings you don’t bother, right? Sort of—not-people. I mean, not to be disrespectful or anything, but they don’t  _ think _ like people. And I think if you’re lucky enough to get away, because they were in a good mood or whatever, you should  _ get away, _ and maybe not talk about it anymore just so you don’t attract attention.”

Chikere looked intimidated. “You think we could have been . . .”

“I don’t know  _ what _ we could have been,” Keegan said, “and I don’t want to think too hard about what we could have been, and neither should you.”

“Yeah,” Chikere said, “okay.” He led the way towards the deserted street. Keegan followed. “Look,” he added, “what I said in there, about you just thinking about me as the big guy—”

Keegan suffered a brief but violent internal struggle, and decided to own up. “No, that was fair. I’m sorry. I don’t—to be fair, we’ve never spent that much time together.”

“If things were normal,” Chikere said, “I’d say we could go to the pub and yell at a match together, but . . .”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe afterwards?”

“Yeah. Maybe afterwards. I’ll Skype you, anyway. Got to talk to someone, otherwise your brain will dribble out your ears.”

As it happened, Keegan talked to Chikere on the phone approximately fifteen minutes after Chikere dropped him at home. “Hey, Chikere? At the bottom of your bag, was there—”

“Rent?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. You figure we should take it?”

“It was left there for us,” Keegan reasoned. “Not accepting the gift might be rude. We  _ do not _ want to be rude. Also I really do need the rent money.”

Two days later, Keegan got a job as a delivery driver. It wasn’t a great job, and the hours would be long, but it was a job—and all the no-contact delivery meant that it wasn’t a particularly risky job, either. One he had almost given up on hearing from. He thought about it, and called Chikere. “Hey, listen. If you’re looking for a job right now . . .”

“I’m not,” Chikere said.

“Oh.”

“I’ve started this internet thing. Mixological, I’m calling it. I show people how to mix drinks, and they message me and chat, just like I’m a bartender, and we sort of have this—back and forth thing. It’s—the thing is, I have subscribers. I’m  _ monetized. _ Probably only going to last through quarantine, people will want to go back to real pubs after it’s over, but I might be able to put it on my resumé. I still don’t know how I got people to notice me.”

“Don’t actually think it was you,” Keegan said.

“Yeah. Probably not.” Chikere was silent for a moment. “You figure we should do something to say thank you? I mean, don’t want to be rude.”

“Been reading up on it,” Keegan said, “and—honestly, I don’t think we could go too far wrong with leaving cake.”

**Author's Note:**

> Cakes are one of the traditional gifts that are left to thank or pacify the Fair Folk, a.k.a. fairies. Other precautionary procedures involve not disturbing things or areas that the fairies have claimed (not moving a specific stone or tree, for instance), not being rude, and, of course, not eating their food. Having well and truly screwed up _all_ of those, it makes sense that Keegan would try to make sure he's in one particular fairy's good graces.


End file.
